


A Requiem for the Living

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Confessions, Drabble, Episode: s10e16 Paint It Black, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Romance, Season/Series 10, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:38:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3618408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You could be dead tomorrow, and you're not spending the night with just another occupied space, another notch in the bedpost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Requiem for the Living

You could be dead tomorrow, and you're spending the night with a fifth of whiskey glued to your hand, telling yourself you won't find any answers when you hit bottom but at least you won't give a shit when you do.

You could be dead tomorrow, and you're spending the night field-stripping the Colt, knowing it won't make a damn lick of difference when push shoves; when not even a bullet'll put you out of your misery.

You could be dead tomorrow, and you're spending the night curled up with one crummy pillow on an even crummier side of the bed, hoping you've drunk enough to drown out the thoughts 'bout the absolute crummiest part of it all:

How the other half's never been occupied.

Funny how something can be so empty but still leave you feeling like the walls are closing in on you; how something can be so silent but all you hear is the goddamn screaming. And you don't even know what's worse: the voice that's tellin' you that you've got nothing to show for your sorry excuse of a life or the voice that says you never shoulda been born at all. Hell, that's only the tip of the iceberg, and you know you're fit to break, know that one crack'll be all that it takes before you're howling straight down to Hades along with them.

You could be dead tomorrow, and you're spending the night begging for a moment's peace before your time is due. God, _please,_ just shut up; _why won't they shut the fuck up?_

But then there's the voice that tosses you the rope—

"Dean."

—and for once, you do the smart thing and screw your bravado; you're fucking _terrified_ and you _grab_ it.

"Cas?" You shuffle off the mattress, scrubbing a hand across your jaw as his silhouette shifts into focus in the dim lamplight. "The…how'd you—"

"I heard you. I drove all day…night," he corrects himself after getting an eyeful of you in your boxer briefs—and is that a blush rosy-ing up his cheeks?—"to get here."

"What're you talking about? I never radioed you."

"Your confession."

You could be dead tomorrow, and now you're not even sure you'll make it past tonight. 'Cause first off: how? And second off: _how?_

"That wasn't…" You scramble for words as your thick-as-molasses brain tries to catch up with the rest of you. "I wasn't even praying to you, man. What happens in confession, stays in confession, right?"

"Yes, but…I…" He glances down, shadows casting over his face, but you swear there's a flicker of a smile at the corner of his lips. "There were…longings."

" _Longings?_ " The way it comes outta his mouth sounds so ridiculous, you might've doubled over laughing if you weren't already feeling the gut rot from the liquor. "Jesus, Cas, this ain't a fucking Harlequin romance here."

"No," he says, his eyes passing over the sliver of whiskey remaining and landing on the part of your bed where the sheets are still neatly tucked in. "I believe a frivolous affair is the exact opposite of what you want."

And suddenly, he's understanding the reference all too damn well.

"I…I don't know…I…" You start grasping for the usual knee-jerk quips, the smoke and mirrors to distract from the deep truths and the even deeper hurts and, ugh, _feelings._ But you could be dead tomorrow—shit, Cas could be, too, for all he's got left tickin' on his egg timer—and you're not spending the night moping over the wouldas and the shouldas. As for the couldas, you can name at least ten of them off the top of your head that you don't mind trying right now, and honestly? Yeah. Maybe you're overdue for taking a crack at something different. Something _real._

So fuck it. Fuck your bravado; fuck all your martyring; fuck your need to prove anything. Because all the proof you need's been here all along, wrapped up in one little nerdy dude with an oversized trench coat—and God, has he always looked at you like that? How could you be so fucking… _wow,_ you're an idiot.

You could be dead tomorrow, and you're not spending the night with just another occupied space, another notch in the bedpost.

You're spending the night with him.

With fistfuls of coat in your hands, it's your ass to the wall and his knee wedged between your thighs, rubbing up against your dick till you've got his bottom lip between your teeth and find yourself moaning hot and heavy into his mouth. After you level the playing field and get that fucking belt off of him, it's your back to the sheets and his— _fuck—_ his tongue teasing you at the tip, slicking you up and taking you in till you're spilling into his mouth and confessing sins that would give a priest secondhand debauchery. And when you start whispering things in his ear, it's mushy and it's gross and it's all the stuff you never deserved but—

"God, I love you."

—and hell if it don't feel like one step closer to redemption.

When you come back down again, you kiss him like you've been reborn, mapping him with your lips like you're finally returning the favor for stitching you back up after the hellfire rescue. It's never meant much to you, the whole salvation thing.

But tonight, when you give your wrist one last flick and watch a new kind of hallelujah cross over his face, it means everything.

"I wanted you to stay, Cas." Your fingers're sneaking their way through his as you pull him back into you—'cause what the hell's a little cuddling when you've broken all your other rules. "Ever since…" He hums into the crook of your neck as he nudges up against the scruff of your chin for more, working at the square of your jaw with that mouth of his that ain't so virtuous as you'd think. But…no, forget it. None of that matters now. You're sticking to the present—"I _want_ you to stay"—because the present's all you got.

And fuck, it isn't enough.

But you could be dead tomorrow, so you're spending the night like it is.


End file.
